The cavern had become a subterranean warehouse. Vehicles and medium-sized shipping containers lined the nearby wall, while several neat rows of pallets, each loaded with various crates and cardboard boxes, occupied the middle. Three crude shacks had been erected along on the far edge of the area, but their doors were secured with padlocks. These discoveries however were insignificant alongside the one other feature of the cavern that was also the work of men. Commencing at the center of the underground chamber and cutting across the floor at a forty-five degree angle when viewed from the mouth of the tunnel, were two parallel rails of iron, which disappeared into a second passage bored into solid rock.
“I’ll be damned,” whispered Kismet. “They built a subway.”
The group advanced with cautious curiosity to stand at the railhead. A gunmetal gray control box stood adjacent to the enormous shock-absorbing bumper which established the absolute end of the line. Kismet played the light over the green and red switches, absently noting the almost uniform layer of dust on the operator’s panel. “No one’s been down here in a while. I’d say this facility was abandoned weeks — maybe months — before the start of the war.”
“Can you tell where it leads?” Chiron inquired.
Kismet shook his head. “Hussein?”
The young scholar shuffled forward, and after a momentary assessment, leaned over the panel and blew across its surface. A cloud of dust lifted from the neglected control buttons, the motes dancing eerily in the artificial brilliance of the electric lantern. When the air cleared, he surveyed the tableau. Behind him, Kismet could now clearly distinguish the delicate Arabic script which marked several of the buttons and LED indicators, as well as a numeric ten-key push button pad. The letters were incomprehensible to him, but the universal numerals required no translation.
“These are simply controls for summoning and operating the tram,” Hussein explained after a moment. “It does not indicate what the final destination is, or how far away.”
“It would have to be a significant distance to warrant construction of a train,” intoned Chiron. “Otherwise they would have simply continued to utilize trucks.”
Kismet stepped away from the group, playing the beam once more onto the tracks. Still curious about the control box, Chiron directed Marie to break out two Cyalume sticks and a few moments later, the area around the dull metal panel was bathed in a surreal yellow glow. In the stillness, their conversation echoed tinnily from the cavern walls.
“Is it still operational?” Marie asked.
“The power indicator light is off,” Hussein explained.
Kismet’s eyes followed the parallel rails to the point where they disappeared into the tunnel. The unreadable darkness offered no clues to the train’s opposite terminus, but for the first time since discovering the railway, he noticed the overhead wires which were suspended at intervals from the ceiling of the excavated passageway. The lines appeared to be uninsulated power lines, designed, he surmised, to deliver non-stop energy to a trolley car. If Hussein’s assessment was correct, those lines were presently dead. Without being able to utilize the railway, the feasibility of continuing the underground journey was in doubt, an outcome that was by no means unwelcome to Kismet. Especially since the disastrous foray into the desolate treasure vault beneath the Esagila, he had come to believe that no more answers would be found in the tunnel, and did not share Chiron’s enthusiasm for pursuing the search literally to the last dead end. A disapproving scowl crossed his face as his old mentor’s next question reverberated through the cave.
“Is there any way to turn it on?”
Hussein’s answer was not audible and Kismet did not turn back to see if the injured scholar was attempting to follow through on Chiron’s request. Despite his reticence, Kismet could not help but be curious about what clandestine operations or discoveries had been so important as to motivate the former Iraqi dictator to undertake such a colossal construction project. He was mildly surprised to find himself speculating about the destination of the railway and wondering if perhaps other palaces concealed similar entrances. Perhaps Saddam Hussein had built an elaborate, nationwide subway system in order to move swiftly and secretly through his domain.
His eyes followed the power line out of the tunnel and through the air to one of the upright stanchions which reached out over the tracks, suspending the line at a constant height. The design was similar to mass transit street cars in many cities, though notably different than the third rail system used by the New York transit authority, with which Kismet was more familiar.
His gaze was then drawn to a smaller brown wire which ran the length of the main line. It was basic sixteen-gauge, two-conductor stranded wire, often called “speaker wire” because of its use in home audio systems. Kismet knew it wasn’t good for much else. Cheap and thinly insulated, the copper strands could only conduct a very low voltage current. He followed the wire along its path, wondering if it was part of some kind of intercom system. There was only one other application he could think of that did not involve the transmission of electrical impulses for purposes of sound amplification; stranded wire was also used for triggering blasting caps.
“Hussein, wait—”
His admonition came a moment too late. Even as he shouted, he heard the click of a circuit breaker being thrown on the main panel, but the expected detonation did not occur. His relief was short-lived, however. In the relative silence that followed his warning, there was a faint, modulated tone, oscillating at intervals of exactly one second.
It was a countdown.
Eleven
Kismet muscled past the paralyzed forms of his companions and scanned the control board. Directly above the numeric keypad, an LED display ticked off the seconds remaining until whatever ugly surprise hard-wired into the security system was revealed, with what he now had little doubt would be explosive consequences.
24…23…22….
A thirty-second countdown, he realized. But thirty seconds — now twenty — to do what?
“Run!” he rasped. “Get out of here, now!”
As he moved to heed his own advice, he saw Hussein and Marie following suit. Chiron however hesitated, then leaned over the control board, his gnarled fingers hovering above the buttons. Kismet half-turned and shouted over his shoulder.
“Pierre, leave it! It’s wired to blow!”
“I can’t.” The old man’s voice was pleading. “I’ve come too far. There’s got to be a way to turn it off.”
“Damn it.” Kismet’s rage was mostly self-directed. He knew that he wasn’t going to surrender Chiron to his fate, and that meant he was going to have to figure out a way to defuse the bomb or die trying. He wheeled around and came up to the platform alongside the other man. The count was down to eighteen seconds. “Don’t touch anything.”
He located the wire strand where it disappeared into the control box. One hard yank on the wire might be enough to rip it free of the timed trigger. Or it might complete the circuit and blow the detonators. In fifteen seconds, it would cease to matter.
He looked at the dust-covered ten-key buttons again. Their significance was now obvious. Anyone attempting to summon the train would first have to enter a security code. Failure to do so would quite literally bring down the roof. “Impossible,” he muttered, reaching for the wire. “There must be millions of combinations.”
He stopped again. 12… 11….
On an impulse, he leaned close to the numeric keypad and blew away the fine coating of dust. About half of the numbers remained partially obscured by an accumulation of particles adhering to a film of skin oils. Curiously, these buttons — seven, four, one, and zero, along with the asterisk and pound symbol — formed an L-shape. The significance of this was not lost on Kismet. These six characters alone had been used whenever anyone wished to disarm the security system.